Five Nights at Freddy's
by Chicachu
Summary: Unemployed and nearly broke, Mike Schmidt starts to think his luck might be turning around when he is hired to be the new night guard for Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. However, the family friendly pizzeria is not what it initially appears to be. Mysteries surround Freddy's, and it's only a matter of time before the animatronic characters forever consume Mike's life. AU retelling.
1. Chapter 1

**~Author's Note~**

 **Normally I wouldn't put an AN, but since this can be a difficult fandom at times, I decided it would be best to mention this now. This fanfic takes place in an alternate reality and as a result will not follow the games exactly. There are definitely points that won't follow someone's theories, but keep in mind that this story doesn't even follow my own FNaF theories. Please, just think of this as a retelling of the beloved franchise because that's exactly what it is. Scott Cawthon is telling his story; if I follow everything he does, then what would be the point of fan fiction? I'm already using his characters and setting, so might as well give this plot a little twist.**

 **~Disclaimer~**

 **Scott Cawthon owns the Five Nights at Freddy's franchise. All credits and rights go directly to him. I only claim the original characters as my own. The cover art was made by two images I found on Google (all rights go to the creators!) and put together with Microsoft Word. Enjoy!**

 ** _Utah - 1998_**

It always seems that when life's going great, the universe decides that you need to be knocked off your feet, kicked while still on the ground, and spend some time at rock bottom.

Or at least that's how it felt for Mike Schmidt.

Typical to the start of a stereotypical drama film, rain seemingly poured with no end from the sky during his mother's funeral. The weather was miserable as Mike, and it stayed that way during the two weeks the twenty-four-year-old spent going through his mother's paperwork and bank statements. With a sigh, Mike realized that as much as he didn't want to, he had to sell the house he was raised in.

The house he grew up in was large and boasted the wealth his father had acquired while living, but as it was still not paid off and the inheritance Mike just received already running dry, Mike had to let go of that sentimental value. He was unemployed, and there were still medical bills and funeral expenses that demanded to be paid. As much as he didn't want to admit it to himself, the sooner he sold the house the better off he would be.

Momo, Mike's orange tabby and only other resident at the home, stared at Mike as he went through the last of the files. Wanting attention, the tomcat jumped onto the table and rubbed against the papers Mike held in hand. Mike didn't react, however. Instead he was swallowed with frustration at his inability to find his life's biggest question, one he never thought to ask either of this parents while they were still alive.

 _Were did all the money come from?_

"Stocks" and "Investments" were words Mike never thought much of when he was younger. Now that he was an adult, he understood that this was perhaps the reason his family was so wealthy during his early life; having an electrician for a father only provided so much income. Not to mention that it wasn't until Mike was about nine or ten that his father told Mike and his mother that money would have to be handled more tightly, something that never would have been a problem if all the money from before came entirely from Mr. Schmidt's profession.

Mindlessly reaching out to stroke Momo's ears, Mike sighed with the realization that he might never know what it was that his father invested in to earn so much money. By this point he had been through every document, bank statement, and file in the house. It was as if this investment never happened. It was as if his parents never wanted any proof that they were at one point linked to whatever corporation gave them such wealth.

Putting down the papers and pulling away from Momo, much to the tomcat's dissatisfaction, Mike began to rub his forehead. He stopped abruptly when his fingers ran over the rugged line of skin above his eyebrow. His scar - the only physical proof that Mike had not imagined his early childhood.

A girl's laugh flashed in Mike's memory, something that always scared him when he was younger. He had long forgotten her name or what she looked like, but Mike could never forget the laugh that kept his younger self awake at night. A people who had disappeared without a trace similar to the proof of his father's investment were the Browns. At one point the Schmidts and the Browns spent all their time together, which meant that Mike spent a lot of time with their cruel daughter. The last time Mike saw any of them was a few short weeks before his father announced how money would be used restrictedly in the household, and even as a child Mike wondered if it had something to do with the Browns.

Needless to say, Mike did his best to not think of them often.

Their daughter, who was about Mike's age, would mock him, torment him, and had even locked him in the closet more than once. He received his scar when she pushed him down the stairs on his eight birthday. The younger Mike never thought of her as a friend, and even now he didn't care enough to wonder where she was now. Not even pictures of her and her parents where found in Mike's search through the house, but that was one loss Mike could live with.

Whatever the mystery behind this complete disappearance of this facet of Mike's childhood was, it wasn't going to help him with his current issues. Maybe he will never figure out which corporation his father invested in that seemingly no longer exists. Maybe he will never run into the Browns again. Either way, he had things that needed to be done, and dwelling on a past that did not appear to want to be dug up was not going to take him anywhere.

* * *

Within two months of his mother's funeral, Mike sold the home, paid the last of the bills, and moved into a small apartment on the far side of a nearby town. His new living space consisted of a kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, and a dainty living room - it was much smaller than what Mike was used to, but the place was just the right size for a single man and his pet cat. Still, the place had a rent, and rents had to be paid. Trying to push away the stress that he was still unemployed and it was only a matter of time before he went completely broke, Mike browsed the papers daily in search of a job.

He responded to ads and filled out applications, but it was difficult. Weeks passed with no results. It was as if nobody really needed him even though he desperately needed them. Hope began to fade.

While looking over the Want Ad for what felt like the millionth time, Momo sitting contently on Mike's lap, a certain advertisement caught Mike's eye. On the left of the ad was a black and white picture of a bear. An animatronic bear wearing a top and holding a microphone, a bear that looked awfully familiar. Next to the picture read this:

 **HELP WANTED**

 **Freddy Fazbear's Pizza**

 **Family pizzeria looking for security guard to work the nightshift. 12am-6am.**

 **Monitor cameras, ensure safety of equipment and animatronic characters.**

 **Not responsible for injury/dismemberment.**

 **$120 a week. To apply call: 1-888-FAZ-FAZBEAR**

For $120 a week, Mike knew he would be working for minimum wage. A night shift no less. He would be all alone, something that scarred Mike more than staying up through the ungodly hours of the night. However, with his unsatisfactory conditions, Mike knew he couldn't afford to be picky.

Besides, maybe the experience would come in handy some day.

Forcing Momo off his lap, an action Mike always regretted, Mike picked up the phone and dialed the number. He intended to plan what he was going to say while he waited for someone to answer, but the wait didn't last long. Somebody picked up after the first ring.

"Freddy Fazbear's Pizza. May I help you?"

Mike froze for a second before he blurted, "Hi? Yes! I'm calling about the ad in today's paper."

"The night guard position?" The person on the other line laughed. Mike jumped. "Didn't think we'd get a response so quick."

The rest of the phone conversation was a blur in Mike's memory. He hoped that he sounded professional, yet he most likely came across as anything but. However, by some miracle, he was asked to come over immediately for an interview.

Maybe Mike's luck was beginning to turn around.


	2. Chapter 2

Mike woke to a mass of fur spread across his face, the thin hairs fitting themselves in his nose and mouth. Irritated, Mike swatted away the furball that was Momo. The tomcat groaned in his throats before he left the top of Mike's face and jumped to the floor.

Breathing fresh air again, Mike sat up and checked the time. **3:07**. In the afternoon, no less. No wonder Momo tried to suffocate Mike: it was way past his feeding time.

After giving Momo his bowl of food, Mike dressed in the closest attire to a uniform he could afford. Casual clothes, his new employer said, was acceptable, but Mike was a man who believed in dressing for the job he wanted. Brown trousers, a beige, button up shirt, and a black tie - the dress gave Mike the feeling of professionalism he needed to feign confidence.

"You're not just checking cameras to make sure nobody steals the singing robots," he told himself as he put on the tie. "You're protecting the joys and dreams of every child who visits the pizzeria." Mike picked up his flashlight. "Freddy's today. The world tomorrow."

Feeling somewhat silly about the pep talk, Mike scratched the back of Momo's ears one last time before walking out the door. "Mr. Benedict," he greeted his landlord with a nod. The older man grunted as Mike left the apartment complex.

Mike spent the bus ride to the other side of town twiddling his thumbs. No one spared him a second glance. Some not even a first. Did he ever visit this side of town? With no recent memories of the landscape he now saw, Mike wondered just how small his world really was.

After he got off the bus, Mike cast an anxious glance at his watch. Even though he needed to arrive early to get an official tour of the restaurant, he was still way too early to show up. There had to be some way to pass the time. As he walked the streets of the town, Mike stayed on the look out for a restaurant of some sorts. Since he didn't eat before he left, dinner was probably the best idea.

A quick look around lead him to locate a worn down looking diner, complete with dying bushes at the front and peeling blue paint. Angel's was the name of the place, and posing on the glass door was a winking black . . . cat? It looked as if the "cat" was wearing a halo, but the illustration was too worn away for Mike to tell.

Upon stepping inside, Mike studied the interior and was pleased to see it better kept than the outside. A bar wrapped around the area containing the coffee machines, soft drink fountain, red plastic Coca-Cola cups, and the door to the kitchen. Some patrons sat on the barstools, and others made themselves comfortable in the booths. Miku sat down in the booth closest to the door as his eyes scanned around for a waitress. Nobody with a uniform in sight.

Slowly, Mike reached for the menu behind the ketchup and mustard bottles. As he pulled the menu out, he knocked over the salt shaker. This wouldn't have been a big deal, except the top of the shaker fell off upon impact with the table.

Panicking, Mike set the shaker upright, screwed on the lid, and tried to clean up the mess. He used his hands to sweep all the salt particles together. As the pile grew, Mike bit his lip as he tried to figure out how he was supposed to get rid of the salt mountain without attracting any unwanted attention.

Only it was too late for that. Either the sound of the shaker falling or Mike's frantic attempts to clean the mess got the attention of everyone else in the diner. Most laughed, and the older man at the bar said in an accent Mike noticed but couldn't place, "Now you have to throw a handful over your shoulder to avoid bad luck."

"If he throws any salt on my clean floor, I will throw you both out myself."

Face flushing hot, Mike gradually drew his eyes towards the speaker. Behind the bar stood a young woman with ginger hair falling over her shoulders in waves and piercing hazel eyes that were directed at Mike. Her faded pink dress and stained white apron indicated her as a waitress. Over her crossed arms, Mike saw and read her name tag.

"I'm sorry, Anne," he said. "About spilling the salt, I mean. I didn't throw any over my shoulder. I wouldn't do anything as silly as-"

Anne held up a hand, cutting him off. She snatched up a wet cloth and stalked towards Mike's table. As she wiped away the salt, she said, "I keep telling Chief he needs to buy new salt shakers. These old lids keep falling off whenever customers want to salt their eggs. Believe me, that's the third time this happened this week."

Standing upright, Anne took her notepad and pen from her apron. "What would it be? Today's special is blueberry pancakes. Would you like coffee to drink?"

Eyes scanning the menu, Mike said, "Uh, I'll just have scrambled eggs and bacon. Coffee is good, thanks."

Anne scribbled on the notepad and retrieved the salty cloth. She was gone just long enough to put in Mike's order before she returned with mug and coffee pot in both hands. "So what brings you here . . . ?"

"Mike," he supplied.

"Mike." Anne tried out the name. "I don't recall seeing your face here before, and I never forget a face."

"Just got a job in town. Start tonight." Mike took a sip of his coffee. "I'm the new night guard for Freddy Fazbear's Pizzeria."

When the words were spoken, the color drained from Anne's face. The coffee pot began to shake, so she held it close to her body and kept the other hand hovering beneath. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, but as suddenly as her whole demeanor shifted, she fled from Mike and rushed back into the kitchen.

Confused, Mike looked to the older man sitting at the bar and asked, "Did I say something wrong?"

The humor was completely wiped from the man's face. "You'll have to forgive Anne. She had a bad experience at Freddy's when she was a wee lass. Utterly traumatized, poor thing. It's been over ten years, yet she still won't step inside the restaurant."

"I . . . see." Unsure of what else to say, Mike stared into his coffee. He didn't know what to expect his first night, but meeting someone whose bad experience at the pizzeria haunting her a decade later before he even started his shift was not on the list. Of course, children have the strangest fears. For all he knew, the waitress just didn't like the look of the singing bear.

Minutes passed, the atmosphere in the diner tense. Maybe it was all a coincidence, but Mike's mention of Freddy's caused more than just the waitress to have an instant turn in behavior. Nobody was laughing and conversing lightly anymore. It was as if merely mentioning the pizzeria was enough to flip the switch of everyone's moods.

"You should quit before you begin."

"I'm sorry?" Mike again looked at the gentleman.

"If you know what's good for you," the man said, his expression serious, "you will quit while you're ahead. You don't want anything to do with that place. It's haunted."

"Mr. Flynn!" Anne scolded as she reappeared, plate of food in hand. "Don't go scaring my customers with your insane ghost stories. Everyone knows there's no such thing as haunted pizzerias, even if they are kind of creepy." Anne shuddered. To Mike, "And don't go listening to this fool, either."

"I wasn't considering it." Mike pushed his coffee to the middle of the table. "I don't believe in ghosts."

"You're young, kid, so take it from someone who knows." Mr. Flynn stood from the bar and put on a baseball cap. "This is a very insane world we live in. We have inanimate objects coming to life when we least expect them to. If you don't fear ghosts, at least fear the animatronics." With that said, Mr. Flynn dropped a wad of cash by his empty plate and left the diner.

"He used to make toys," Anne said, shaking her head as she gave Mike his meal. "I sometimes think being surrounded by painted eyes all day for so many years has made him paranoid. This is one of those times I think such." Anne gave Mike a big smile. "Don't let him scare you away."

Feeling his cheeks heat again for the second time, Mike replied, "I won't."


End file.
